


A Mask

by Fandom_Trash224



Series: Twilly's Batman Fanverse [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: -pointing camera at edward- you're doing amazing sweetie, Bank Robbery, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, except batman and the police, riddle shenanagins, this fic is highly self indulgent and also kinda a slight insight into my riddler, this is fairly early on into his rogue career and that's why ppl arent just Done with him, who were always done with him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 02:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14707037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Trash224/pseuds/Fandom_Trash224
Summary: The Riddler robs a bank, and when a young man answers his riddle correctly, it takes a rather unexpected turn.





	A Mask

Alarms blared in the bank as the man in the green suit stood atop the counter, his henchpeople shoving copious amounts of cash into large duffel bags. To him, it was almost _heavenly_. The terror of the people, the looks on their faces as they were continuously unable to solve his riddles, the knowledge that, no matter what, the GCPD would never catch him. Batman might, but not the GCPD.

“Boss, they just flashed the Bat-signal!” A henchman with a pair of binoculars called out from the upper level of the bank. The Riddler’s smile only grew wider at the prospect of his nemesis running after him, solving riddle after riddle. The possibility of finally stumping the Bat filled him with absolute joy. He left out a laugh of pure elation, and turned to face his captive audience once more.

“Riddle me this!” He exclaims over-dramatically, opening his arms as if preparing to give someone a big hug, “You can carry me everywhere you go, and I do not get heavy. What am I?”

In reply, there was only silence, save for small whimpers and sobs. Riddler sighed, shaking his head. That wouldn’t do. People weren’t meant to _cry_ playing a game, perhaps some incentive would make them more… willing.

“Remember folks, anyone who can solve _any_ of the riddles I've laid out will be a _hero_! If you solve a riddle,” his green eyes flashed wickedly, “I won't detonate the bomb.”

There was no bomb. Well, there _was_ , but it was a smoke bomb, meant more to scare and confuse than kill, but the audience didn’t know that. The threat of being blown up, in The Riddler’s experience, got better results than the threat of the room filling with smoke. Nevertheless, the silence continued, and Riddler couldn’t help but let out a small huff. Ignoramuses, the lot of them.

“Well then, I’m afraid I must bid you all _adieu_ . I wish at least _one_ of you had a--”

“A name!”

Well, that certainly caught him off guard. His eyes frantically searched the room, determined to find the source of the answer, and his eyes fell upon a small family of four, two of which were now protectively hugging a young boy with dark brown hair that matched the woman he assumed was the mother. The other woman had blonde hair, closer to the growling man that he assumed was the father. Riddler smiled at the boy.

“Correct,” He said, clapping his gloved hands together “Congratulations, young hero! You have saved the day!”

Riddler took out the detonator, and without a second thought, crushed it under his heel. What? Thought he was going to go back on his promise? Please, he doesn’t lie (usually), sometimes he’ll omit truths, like the fact that the bomb was of the smoke variety and not the exploding variety, but he _never_ lies. ~~It caused him enough grief to last a lifetime.~~

The Riddler would have been perfectly content to leave with the money right then and there, but as he turned around, he heard the boy’s father speak in a hissed whisper.

“I’m gonna wring your fucking _neck_ you cocky little shit.”

The Riddler whipped around, almost too eager to absolutely _destroy_ the brute with a witty remark, but his silver tongue quickly turned to lead when he saw that the man had not been talking to him.

He had been speaking to his son.

“You got lucky, understand?” the man continued hissing, seemingly unaware of the green eyes boring into him “when I tell you to keep your damn trap shut, you keep it _shut_ , got it?”

“Dad, it doesn’t matter,” the older sister said softly, as if afraid to speak “he got it right, and we’re fi--”

“Shut it, you little tramp, or you’ll get the belt with him!”

Something bubbled deep in The Riddler’s stomach, and a flash of rage appeared, placing cracks in Edward Nygma’s carefully constructed mask of overconfidence and playfulness. How _dare_ he speak to his son like that? The only person there who had even _attempted_ to solve the riddles? The smartest person there? How _dare_ he call himself that boy’s father with threats like _that_ ? How dare his father speak to _any_ of them like that?

Nygma’s polished shoes made quick click-clacking sounds as he got almost uncomfortably close to the father, who was now backing up, terrified of the Riddler. Nygma’s mask fell into place once more, and he smiled almost _too_ sweetly.

“My apologies, but I couldn’t help but overhear that little… _conversation_. Now, I’ve had my fair share of threats, but...” he trailed off, casting a glance to the other three family members, who trembled just inches away, before turning back to the father.

“What’s it to you?” The father sneered. His breath smelled like booze and onions. He looked over at the family once more, and took notes of small things he could see now that he truly took the time to look. The wife had faint bruises on her wrists, as well as one on her chin that was covered by makeup, which was now being washed away by her tears. The daughter looked malnourished, and had bruising around her neck that could simply be mistaken for being too rough in the bedroom with her boyfriend, had it not been for the young boy’s nearly identical bruises. And to top it all of, the boy had a small scar on his face just above his lip. Based on how it looked, it had the stitches taken out of it only recently. The Riddler scowled, cracks appearing in his mask once more as he turned to face the father again.

“You know,” Edward whispered, his tone going from the overly-cheerful one to one full of malice, “my father used to beat me. Said I was an idiot. Said I cheated on my tests. Said there was no _way_ that _I_ was that smart.”

He gave the man a predatory smile, standing up and turning his back to him, slowly walking away.

“Ah, but look at me now! One of the most _feared_ men in Gotham! Not to mention the _smartest_ man in Gotham. Pretty good, for a worthless, idiotic, waste of space, hm?” He walked back towards the man, who now looked more angry than anything. Edward squatted down, roughly grabbing the man by his hair, smile still plastered on.

“Now,” he said, voice lower and more dangerous than anyone had ever heard him get “Riddle me this: what should I do to a man who gets his kicks from beating on his family?”

By the time the Batman and the police arrived, the man was trembling, covered in bruises and cuts. A large question mark had been carved into the back of his left hand, and he wouldn't stop muttering to himself. Something having to do with “never touching them again”. On the floor beside him, a riddle was scrawled out in his blood, a clue to The Riddler's location, no doubt. Batman simply sighed. It was going to be a _long_ night for him.

Meanwhile, Edward Nygma stood in the bathroom of in an old warehouse as his goons counted his haul, whistling a chipper tune as he cleaned the blood from his face and hands, his jacket hanging nearby as it dripped dry after being washed. It had been a rather productive day, and that made him _very_ happy. And yet, the interaction with the father had cracked him in a way he hadn’t been cracked since he _became_ The Riddler. Since before he had even become Edward _Nygma_. 

“Riddle me this” he said quietly, his eyes turning sad as his smile faltered, “what is something that everyone wears, though not everyone notices?”

He left that unanswered, recovering his smile and continuing to whistle as police sirens went off in the distance. It had been a _very_ good day indeed.


End file.
